


take it slow (just as fast as i can)

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Hunters, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Beaches, Canon-Typical Violence, Fallen Angels, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Threesome, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24446866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Castiel is dying.Has been dying for some time, if Dean dares to think about it. Every morning, he wakes to see Castiel staring listlessly out of their motel window, and every night, he stands vigil while Castiel does all he can to keep himself alive.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 111





	take it slow (just as fast as i can)

Castiel is dying.

Has been dying for some time, if Dean dares to think about it. Every morning, he wakes to see Castiel staring listlessly out of their motel window, and every night, he stands vigil while Castiel does all he can to keep himself alive.

Parked between two streetlamps and hidden in the shadows of an alleyway, Dean stares down at his phone, face illuminated by blue light. A scuffle breaks out through the window of his Chevy Impala, hushed words bouncing off bricks. Glancing up, he watches twin bodies in the rearview; one crashes into a wall, and the other brandishes a silver sword, glinting in the light of the moon.

This part, he doesn’t care to watch. The first few times, he did out of horrified fascination, the slice of his blade splitting skin open. Instead of blood, a pale white mist spilled free, and Castiel swallowed it like smoke until life flashed in his eyes, blue turning to gold. For a while, the process was the same, at first once a month, then once a week. Now, Castiel can barely make it a day, and his stomach turns every time he thinks about it, about how much pain Castiel must be in, living like this.

Dean hurts just looking at him.

Another grunt, followed by a shout—then silence. In the mirror, Dean watches Castiel grasp the man by the collar and drain the energy—Grace, Castiel calls it—from his throat, swallowing it down without hesitation. After that, the body withers and collapses into a pile of dust, spilling through Castiel’s outstretched fingers.

No spark of gold this time. Dean watches Castiel’s shoulders slump, watches him sag when he heads back to the car. Worn loafers cross the asphalt, solemn clicks in the dead of night. Castiel grabs the passenger handle and wrenches the door open, slamming it shut after he falls into the seat. A strange sense of sorrow clings to him, permeating the air.

Dean turns his head. In the passenger seat, Castiel stares straight ahead, knuckles white in his lap. So much unlike the nights before, where he would talk to Dean after, reassure him that he was alright, that he could get through another day. Now, Dean wonders if he’ll wake up in the morning and Castiel will be a pile of ash on the opposite bed, just like all the others he’s killed.

“You know,” Dean says, turning the key in the ignition. “You don’t have to do this. We can find another way.”

Castiel lets out a breath, body sagging. Tears prick the corners of his eyes; he holds them back by sheer will. “I know,” he rumbles. “I just wish I didn’t have to kill them.”

-+-

Castiel really is beautiful, or so Dean tells himself every night. Sprawled out under the sheets, he feigns sleep in favor of watching Castiel wander their motel room. Socked feet pad across musty carpeting, pacing odd shapes for an hour before he finally collapses, adrenaline waning. The other side of the mattress creaks—a single today, all Dean can afford—and Castiel settles, still donning his suit and coat. The blade is still tucked away in his sleeve, kept in the same place he stores his wings.

Dean turns over after a few quiet minutes, eyes still closed while he tucks an arm under the pillow. After a while, he sneaks a look at Castiel, at the sharpness of his profile, nose an absurdly straight line, cheeks sharp and angled like his jaw. His dark hair falls flat on his head, curling at the edges. Even resting, he’s every bit as formidable, like in the next second, he could plunge that same sword into Dean’s gut and cut their agreement short.

Still, Dean wants to touch him. Wants to hold him close and soothe the tension under his skin. Never once in the time Dean has known him have they ever touched, aside from jostled elbows in cars and diner booths, and occasional brushes of cold feet when they share a bed. He misses it, the feeling of another person’s warmth. Occasionally, Dean takes a woman back to the room from whatever bar he manages to find, and Castiel waits outside until they’re finished, patient as ever.

As a human, Dean needs physical comfort. As an angel, Castiel apparently requires nothing of the sort.

“Tell me about falling,” Dean whispers above the sound of the air conditioner and the rumble of the highway.

Red neon flashes across Castiel’s face, dying the blue of his eyes scarlet, followed by yellow, then violet. “Have you read the Bible?” he asks, never looking away from the ceiling.”

Dean nods. “I know Lucifer and the other angels fell,” he says, “but not about what happened to them. They didn't die, did they?”

Castiel sighs, his nostrils flaring. “They became the Fallen,” he explains. “A race of demons that were formerly angels. Lucifer is their leader.” Another breath. He faces Dean, placing a hand between them. Dean wants to hold it, to lace their fingers together. His skin looks soft and warm, the strength in them inviting. A scar decorates one of his knuckles. Blue eyes blink, solemn. “They’re neither alive nor dead, trapped in Hell and awaiting the rapture that’ll never come.”

“So the apocalypse isn’t real?” Dean asks.

He nods. “God abandoned us long ago,” Castiel explains. “Without His commands, we’re essentially on standby. But no one wants to fight, and no one has any interests in starting a war for the sake of it, not even Michael.” He closes his eyes. Dean reaches out to trace his cheekbone, then stops, pulling away. “I don’t want to become one of them, Dean. I don’t want to die, but I’m afraid that…”

“That you can’t stop it,” Dean finishes for him. To his dismay, Castiel agrees. “Would it really be so bad, though? I mean, it’s been a year, and it’s not getting any better. I know you think you need to do whatever you’re doing, but you can’t live like this.” _I can’t live watching you die_ , Dean longs to say. Tempting fate, he palms Castiel’s cheek, marveling at how soft he is. Castiel’s jaw clenches. “I don’t think you can stop it anymore.”

A tear wells in the corner of Castiel’s eye. He ignores it and curls into the mattress, out of the way of Dean’s hand. “I won’t become like Lucifer,” he says, final. “If I have to kill scores of angels to make that happen, then I will.”

Anger rushes through Dean, barely tempered by the time it reaches his lips. “They’re gonna find out what you’re doing,” he hisses. “What then? How do you think they’re gonna react when they figure out you’re killing your own kind?”

Castiel’s glare hardens, every inch of him coiled. Briefly, Dean thinks over his past twenty-seven years and wonders if it was all worth it, hunting and fighting and falling into the front seat with an angel, just to die at his hand. The blow never comes, thankfully. Rather, Castiel climbs out of bed and slips on his shoes. “I’ll be outside, if you need something,” he says, and leaves, closing the door with a quiet click.

Sitting up, Dean follows him through the sheer curtains, watching him sit with his back to the Impala’s rear quarter panel.

Because no matter how angry Castiel gets, he refuses to leave. Dean rubs the brand over his left shoulder and wonders how much it would take for Castiel to go. Death, probably—and Dean will have wasted a year for nothing.

-+-

Rain falls through the Appalachians, drops pinging off the windshield and through the pines. Fog rolls in, the cloud cover dropping as the hours progress. Dean found a case in Kentucky, a nest of vampires wreaking havoc on a small town—and Castiel found an angel.

The weather hampers their travel, the dread in Dean’s gut manifesting as the perpetual storm determined to follow them across the country. At his side, Castiel watches the world pass by, slumped in his seat. The Grace didn't work last night; by some miracle, Castiel made it into the car after dawn, and hasn't moved an inch since. He might be dead, for all Dean knows. His stomach twists with the thought.

“Hey,” Dean says, both hands on the wheel, “you still with me?”

A nod. Castiel shifts in his seat, the leather creaking. “I’m tired,” he admits, the gravel in his voice worrying. “I’ve run the possibilities, and I can’t see another way of coming out of this alive.”

Lightning rips across the sky. Dean pulls onto the side of the two-lane, parked mostly in the dirt, and unclicks his seat belt, letting it sling to the side. Leg pulled up into the seat, he drapes an arm over the back of the bench, facing Castiel. “So explain it to me. Tell me what’s going on so I can help, damnit. It’s been a year, Cas, and you’re not getting any better.” He huffs a laugh. “You need a better power source, buddy.”

Castiel’s frown deepens. “I’m dying,” he says. Blasé, simple as that—Castiel is dying. “I was banished, the night we met. The seraphim wanted my death to be quick, but I found a loophole.”

“Stealing Grace,” Dean says. “Yeah, I got that much. But why’s it not working?”

To that, Castiel shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. Sweat beads at his temple. “The same way as an addiction progresses. I’ve built up a tolerance, and it’s no longer sustaining me. And the longer I go without, the faster my own Grace fails.”

“And the faster you die,” Dean suggests. It takes a moment, but Castiel nods. Dean’s palms sweat, no matter how hard he rubs them on his jeans. Castiel can’t die. Castiel can’t _die_. “There’s gotta be another way, man. Something you haven’t tried, some sort of magic. Hell, my brother’s a witch, he probably knows—”

“There’s nothing,” Castiel cuts in, sharper than intended. Lowering his voice, he continues, “I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility in every universe, every faith, but there’s nothing that can be done to save me. When God cast out the angels…” He pauses, wringing his hands together. “He intended our fall to be eternal punishment. He intended us to suffer for as long as possible, and then to die, alone and ashamed.”

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat. “Well, for one, you’re not dying,” he asserts. “And two, you’re not dying alone. Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out, okay? But we’ve gotta stop killing every angel we find. And honestly?” He pats the bench. “I didn’t know we had this many angels here. I spent my whole life thinking they were a bedtime story, and now there’s…”

“Thousands.” Finally, Castiel looks at him, defeat lingering in his eyes. “They live among you, just as monsters do. Some perform miracles, while others take advantage of their flock. I wasn’t one of the Watchers. I didn’t… I didn’t come here of my own accord.”

“So what happened?” Dean leans further into the seat, resting his cheek atop his arm. “What’d you do that they had to slam you down to Earth for?”

At first, Castiel doesn’t answer. Dean wonders if he even plans to, with the way his face contorts, anger furrowing his brow. They’re not supposed to keep secrets. Dean hates them, has ever since he was a child, and Castiel would rather lie to make him feel better some days than preserve Dean’s sanity.

“I’ve been told my alliances aren’t the same as the other angels,” Castiel says, barely a whisper above the rain. “That I don’t conform to God’s standards, that I favor… humans over my own creator. But humans haven’t abandoned us, unlike Him. Humans still believe and pray, and I envy your creativity, your endeavors, your… free will. Things none of us were allowed to have. Our only job is to sing God’s praise, and I…”

He stops and shakes his head. A cruel smile twists his lips. “I can’t obey a man I’ve never met. I’ve never heard His voice. Neither has anyone other than the Seraphim, and yet, they sought me out to punish me for a crime I wasn’t aware of. Lucifer fell for so much more, and I… My crime is that I feel. I felt more than he ever did, and this is my punishment?” A laugh. Tears drip down his chin, and Dean’s heart clenches. “I did what I was told. I loved creation like I loved Him, and now I’m dying, and I can’t stop it.”

“Cas,” Dean mutters. Castiel looks at him, then lowers his head. Against his better instincts, Dean thumbs away the tears clinging to Castiel’s lashes, only to feel Castiel turn into him, cheek scalding against his palm. “It’s not your fault.”

Castiel sucks in a shaky breath. “I can’t help but feel that it is,” he says. “I don’t have much longer, Dean. The kindest thing you could do is let me out here.”

No. _No_. “No can do,” Dean says, rough. “Already told you once, you’re not dying. And if that means we gotta do something insanely stupid to keep you alive, then we’ll do it. Even if you fall—”

“I told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t wanna.” Dean flicks his earlobe. “But you gotta think about it. That might be your only shot at keeping you alive. Is it really so bad, if you ended up a demon? Or hell, a human. Can angels grow souls?”

Blinking, Castiel glances up, his jaw clenched. “It’s impossible,” he says, the slightest bit uncertain. “It’s… It’s not possible. An angel growing a soul is tantamount to a human becoming an angel. They’re blasphemous in their own way—”

“But it could happen,” Dean cuts in.

And slowly, ever so slowly, Castiel nods.

-+-

Rather than murder an angel on sight, Dean invites them to lunch. Two of them, a brother and sister named Midael and Saphar—the latter of which, Castiel refuses to look at, or even acknowledge. If Dean had to put a word to it, Castiel looks ashamed to even be in her presence.

Looking at her, Dean gets it, but not for reasons he understands. In fact, she reminds him of his mother, all long, blonde hair and green eyes, hardened with age. She wears a yellow sundress polka dotted with white flowers, and bangles adorn her wrists.

Midael looks like he just wandered off of a farm, his skin tanned and freckled from repeated sun exposure. His baseball cap covers most if not all of his hair, and his flannel shirt hangs open, tucked into his jeans and revealing his broad chest. He’s handsome—exactly the kind of guy Dean fantasizes about, but is too shy to take to bed. Leaning back, he drapes an arm over the diner bench, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. Probably for looks. His teeth are too nice.

Rock ‘n roll ballads from the fifties play on the jukebox in the corner of the room, intermingling with the chatter of patrons and clanging pots and pans in the kitchen. The familiarity of it soothes Dean, puts him more at ease. Saphar looks between the two of them, tapping her yellow-painted nails against the tabletop. Castiel continues to look at his lap, wringing his hands.

“So you were really gonna kill us, huh?” Midael says by way of a conversation starter, a smirk on his lips. “Goody two shoes Castiel, sneaking up on us?”

“You know I wouldn't if I couldn't help it,” Castiel says. Out of view, Dean bumps their knees together; Castiel presses back, shame heating the tips of his ears. “I’ve been doing what I can, but I’m afraid my time is running short.”

“So you came to us.” Saphar enunciates her words. “You came to a Seraphim, the same order that banished you in the first place, for help.”

“But you weren’t the one who banished him, right?” Dean asks, earning a side-eyed glare from Saphar. “We saw your house, you can’t just decide to live in into a mansion overnight without murdering whoever lived there.”

“Not a mansion,” Midael corrects. He holds the cigarette between two fingers, jabbing it in Dean’s direction. “Lakehouse. Though, I can see why you’d think that, with all the bedrooms. And I mean a lot of them. Y’all should come back sometime, check ‘em out.” He gives Dean a wink—Dean bites his tongue.

Saphar rolls her eyes. “I didn’t banish Castiel, no. And I don’t know who did either, or why. We’ve been here for decades, long before the motel in town was built. But angels.” Baring a palm, she urges Castiel to take her hand. “Angels, Castiel. There are other creatures you could feed on, but not our own kin.”

Sighing, Castiel closes his eyes. Saphar strokes the side of his hand. “They won’t sustain me, not like Grace can. But I’m becoming immune, and the longer I go without, the less I feel.”

“We wanted to ask you,” Dean says after Castiel trails off, “if angels can grow souls. Let’s say Cas falls. Let’s say one morning he wakes up, and he’s not an angel anymore. What’s keeping him from being human?”

“Well,” Midael wonders aloud, “he hasn't really done anything atrocious, like burning down a cathedral or setting a plague loose.” He narrows his eyes. “Have you?”

“No,” Castiel hisses. “I’ve been with Dean since the moment I fell.”

Both sets of eyes fall on Dean.

“I’m a hunter,” Dean says, sitting up straighter. “I found him in a barn, with his wings mangled and everything. I can vouch.”

Saphar twirls a strand of hair, letting it spring loose. “The only crime he’s committed then is killing angels. Which, in and of itself, isn’t a crime.”

Dean blinks, sits back. “What, is that normal up there? Because lady, if I killed someone in this diner, that’s murder.”

“Think of it as honor killings,” Midael says. He takes a sugar packet and rips it open at the end, dumping it into his Coke. “An angel committed a crime and you can prove it beyond a reasonable doubt? They die, simple as that. Either they can be banished or slaughtered with their own weapon, it depends on the severity.”

“Beheading is generally the more suitable of the two,” Saphar continues. “But banishment is only reserved for more serious crimes. Of which, I don't think Castiel has committed.” She sighs, pulling her hand free. “It’s not a crime to love, Castiel. And whatever the Seraphim told you, they lied. But there’s no way to a stop a fall, unless you were to cut out your Grace and cast it away.”

“So in theory, he could do that,” Dean says—and Castiel elbows him in the rib. “Ow, Jesus Christ, dude—”

Castiel grabs Dean by the collar, yanking him closer, until his lips touch Dean’s ear. “Cutting out my Grace is forbidden,” he says, hushed. A chill spreads across Dean’s skin just listening to him. “Just as forbidden as devouring another angel. I’m not—”

“It’s an option, y’know,” Midael chimes. Castiel shoots him a glare—Dean struggles to smother his sudden erection. “Seen a couple of us do it, ain’t no big deal. Just gotta tether yourself to somethin’ terrestrial, but that always backfires. Humans die. You could fall one day and die the next because the person you bonded with walked in front of a tractor trailer on the interstate.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Saphar mutters.

Midael smiles at her. “Like I said, seen it a few times.”

“I’m not removing my Grace,” Castiel says with finality. He shoves Dean before releasing his shirt, the fabric wrinkled. “What do you know about souls?”

Saphar looks over her shoulder before she speaks, elbows atop the table. “It takes years, Castiel, to grow a soul. It’s not impossible, but it’s incredibly difficult, and the only way to tell is after you die. Looking at you, all I can see is your Grace.” She squints. “Whatever little of it you have. It’s entirely possible that you could have one, but…”

“You’re a Seraph,” Castiel pleads. “If anyone can tell me what I can do, it should be you. Out of all the angels, Saphar—”

“My rank doesn’t mean I know all of the answers,” Saphar rebuts. “I only know what I was told at the dawn of Creation. And what I was told, is that when angels die, they die. No rebirth, no reincarnation, nothing. But what I’ve learned,” she pauses and leans in, pinching Castiel’s chin between her thumb and index finger, “is that miracles are real, and angels aren’t the only ones who can make them happen.”

With a nod, she lets Castiel go—then turns to Dean, the joy in her eyes dizzying. “Take care of him, Dean. Can you do that for us?”

Panicked, Dean nods. “Yeah, but—why me?”

Midael smiles, brows raised. “You’ll figure it out. Smart guy like you, won’t take you long at all.”

-+-

The first sign of falling, apparently, is tenderness. Castiel winces whenever he moves his arms, and flinches whenever he has to use his hands for something as menial as opening a door. Once inside their motel room, he strips out of his coat and hangs it on the rack behind the door, then goes for his suit jacket.

Dean watches him while unlacing his shoes. Dutifully, Castiel undoes the buttons on his shirt and peels it off, only to reveal a massive patch of red between his shoulder blades. Looking at it turns Dean’s stomach. “Dude.” Dean stands, kicking off his other boot despite most of the laces still being tied. Castiel doesn’t bother to give any explanation, nor does he react when Dean steps closer. Heat radiates from Castiel’s back. “You okay?”

“I didn’t kill anyone today,” Castiel says, a pitiful excuse for an answer. “The first thing to hurt and the last to go are my wings.”

“Shit.” Licking his lower lip, Dean guides Castiel onto the bed—a single again, his own pitiful excuse for keeping Castiel close—and eases him onto his stomach. Castiel goes willingly, pulling a pillow close. “Will it help if I, I don’t know, give you a massage or something? That always works with me.”

“But you don’t have wings,” Castiel mumbles, but doesn’t turn him down.

Dean takes that as an answer as any. He straddles Castiel’s waist with ease and rubs his hands together. The last time someone gave him a massage, Sam gave him a coupon as a belated birthday present, and the woman used sweet-smelling oil and left him smelling like a rose garden for three days. All Dean has is lube and a bottle of Palmers, both of which are in his duffel and the former, he doesn’t intend to use.

Bare skin always feels best, in his opinion. And Castiel certainly doesn't complain when Dean sweeps his fingers up the column of his spine, careful to avoid the raised ridges of his wings. In the last few months, Dean has only seen them a handful of times, mostly when Castiel needed something bandaged, or a loose feather pulled free. On one occasion, Castiel allowed him to collect enough to stuff into a shipping tube and send to Sam for some sort of spell he was working on. The intimacy of touching his wings didn't escape Dean then, and it still doesn’t now.

Sadness pangs in his chest. This might be the last time he ever gets to see them, even with them hidden away. Gingerly, he rubs to the side of each slit, garnering a muffled hiss from Castiel. “Tell me if it hurts?” Dean asks. Castiel nods, his eyes pinched shut. “Cas—”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says, shaky. “I hate this.”

Shoulders slumped, Dean nods. “I know.” And he does. He might not know what it feels like to die, but he knows about exhaustion, how bone deep it runs and how nothing helps except sleeping, and even then, it barely makes a dent. Rather than talk about it, Dean continues touching him, digging his fingers into the knots in Castiel’s muscles. Castiel groans when they loosen, the furrow of his brow softening. “Are they really gonna go away?”

“Soon, probably,” Castiel slurs. He holds the pillow closer, tucking an arm underneath. “It’s less vanishing and more… falling off.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. He can just see it now, bloodied masses of bone strewn across the hotel mattress, and a security deposit he won’t ever get back. “Shit, and we’re gonna have to clean that up.”

“If they were visible, yes, you’d have to dispose of them,” Castiel says. “Where I have them hidden now, they’ll more or less vanish. If you want any of my feathers, I’d advise you to take them now.”

Before Dean can tell him _no, you don’t have to do that_ , Castiel lets them free, twin masses of black-and-blue feathers spilling into view and cascading onto the floor. They look worse than the last time he saw them—rotten, in some places, each feather turning green and yellow, withering. Dean pets through them one last time. It’s really happening, then—Castiel is really falling, and this is the proof. “Shit, Cas…”

“Wings are just a manifestation of my Grace,” Castiel sighs. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t a part of me. It’s like… losing a limb.”

“Think I’d be freaked out if my arm just fell off,” Dean says. “Why aren’t you bugging out?”

Castiel hums, low in his throat. Faintly, he shivers under Dean’s touch, and Dean wants to bury his face in Castiel’s wings, just to feel their warmth one last time. “I hate it,” Castiel says. “I’m losing myself, Dean. And lying here, being touched like this… shows me how far I’ve already fallen.”

Sitting up straighter, Dean meets Castiel’s eye, blue shining with unshed tears. Castiel isn’t a crier—isn’t much for showing emotion, but pain brings out the worst in people, in Dean’s experience. “You think being touched is a sin?” Dean asks. His stomach bottoms out when Castiel nods. “Cas, this isn’t—there’s nothing wrong with this. Just ‘cause it feels good doesn’t mean you’re gonna go to Hell for it.”

“No one’s ever touched me.” Castiel struggles to sit up on his elbows, but falls back down, face hitting the pillow. “Not like this. Never for comfort.”

 _Shit_. Dean strokes along the arch of Castiel’s wing, then back down, small feathers pointing in every direction. Castiel shudders, hiding his face. “You can ask, y’know, if you want me to touch you. From experience? Hugs are the best thing ever. And cuddling, but that’s only for special occasions.”

“I’d imagine cuddling isn’t strictly reserved for post-coital moments,” Castiel says, the slightest bit annoyed. “I don’t want to ask that of you. I don’t want you to… pity me.”

Dean frowns. “Dude, I’m not—Alright, you know what? Move.” And Dean _moves_ him, forcing Castiel onto his side and crushing his right wing under his arm. He slides up behind Castiel, wrapping an arm around his waist and dovetailing their legs. Tucking an arm under Castiel’s head, he pets whatever feathers he can reach, namely the shorter coverts. Castiel goes rigid in his arms, muscles coiled; Dean noses the back of his neck and breathes, letting his breath warm Castiel’s nape.

“Can you feel my heartbeat?” Dean asks. Stilted, Castiel nods. “Good. Now relax, okay? Take a nap, you’re gonna give me a hernia.”

“That's statistically impossible,” Castiel complains, but ultimately settles.

Gradually, the tension leaves his body, and Dean pets through the hairs peppering Castiel’s chest, then down to his stomach and the thin trail leading south. His left wing lifts and settles, half-draped off the mattress.

“How’s that?” Dean asks. “Been told I give the best hugs.”

“I don't think this constitutes as a hug,” Castiel says, the slightest bit mirthful. Dean’s heart soars. “But it’s nice.”

He smiles and nuzzles closer. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”

-+-

Only a few of Castiel’s feathers, in the end, are salvageable. The longest of which spans Dean’s shoulder to his elbow, the others measuring barely the length of his palm. Castiel hides them away after Dean finishes and hides under the sheets, covers pulled over his head. Sitting on the other side, Dean pets backwards along the vane of one of the shorter feathers, then smooths it down, again and again.

Outside their motel window, the sun sets, casting the remaining clouds in reds and yellows, evening light draining over the tops of the trees. Water sits in puddles in the parking lot, occasionally rippling with a sudden breeze. Supposedly, more rain will move in overnight, sticking around for the next week. Dean can’t wait to finish this case—starting it is another question.

“What does it feel like?” Dean asks after the night settles in. He shuts the television off and strips off his sweatpants, tossing them to the floor. Crawling under the covers, he draws Castiel close, pillowing Castiel’s head with his bicep and snaking his other arm around Castiel’s chest. To his shock, Castiel grabs his hand and holds him, shaking. “Dying, what does it feel like?”

He doesn't want to know—doesn't want to think about it, either. But part of him wants to empathize with Castiel, just to be able to comfort him in case these are his final moments. Castiel has a countdown looming over his head, and Dean can’t see the clock. “Lonely,” Castiel says, gripping Dean’s hand tight. “Cold. Like this might be my last sunset.”

Lip between his teeth, Dean rests his forehead against Castiel’s nape. “I think you have a soul,” he says. “I’ve met enough angels to know they don’t have emotions. They can’t feel, not like you do. They’d throw themselves on the fire if it meant dying for the greater good, but you won’t do it.” He feels Castiel nod more than sees him, the room cast in dark shadows. “If it weren’t for your wings, I’d think you were already human.”

Castiel sighs—deep, deep enough that Dean briefly wonders if he’ll ever breathe again. “You have too much faith in me,” he whispers. “For a man who never believed, how can you…”

“Because I just do. One of my faults, I trust in people too much. And I get burned every time, but it’s worth it.” He squeezes Castiel’s hand. “Part of the joys of being human, getting your heart broken. Doesn’t mean it hurts any less.”

“If I died,” Castiel ventures, “would it break your heart?”

That’s the question—the one thing Dean never anticipated having to answer—would it break his heart if Castiel died? “Yeah,” he says, somber. “You got no idea, buddy.”

-+-

_Blood scatters across the concrete floor, lit by swinging fluorescent fixtures. Shadows dance under the cover of darkness, scarlet puddles swinging in and out of view. Dean cleans the blade of his machete on a discarded towel, dusted in corn remnants and far from clean. It gets the job done, and Dean tosses the dirtied cloth aside, waiting for the inevitable slop of wet fabric against concrete flooring._

_It doesn't come._

_Glancing over his shoulder, Dean looks past the decapitated corpses and spots a bare foot hidden behind a collapsed pallet of corn sacks. At last count, Dean killed three vampires—and that leg wasn't there when he walked in. “Alright,” he announces, machete held at the ready. “I’ll give you to the count of three to come out, and maybe I’ll let you go. After that, and I might change my mind.” He steps closer, footsteps light. “One,” a calf comes into view, then a knee, “two,” thigh, that’s definitely a hip—is this guy wearing clothes? “Three—”_

_“Don’t,” a voice rasps._

_Dean lowers his weapon and comes to a stop, breath caught in his throat. Before him, bloodied and sprawled out atop burlap sacks, is an angel, with his wings mangled and broken beyond repair. A large gash splits his chest down to the bone, bleeding sluggishly across his torso and the produce underneath him. One of his wrists bends at an odd angle, and an eye is swollen shut. The one that works keeps Dean in his gaze, deep blue and pleading._

_An angel. Angels aren’t real. Angels are a bedtime story, but here one is, wounded and near-death, and beckoning Dean forward with his uninjured hand. Dean drops the machete and goes, kneeling atop one of the sacks. The angel grasps his shirt sleeve and tugs; Dean braces a hand on the cinderblock wall. “I don’t want to die,” he garbles, mouth full of blood. “I don’t—”_

_“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, you hear me?” Dean pats his cheek, wiping his working eye clean. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it—”_

_“Let me,” the angel tries, then coughs, spitting blood. Dean gets most of it on his shirt and chin. “Let me touch it, for a second, I need—”_

_“Yeah, yeah, sure. Take it.”_

_What possesses him in that moment, he has no clue, but he agrees with barely a thought as to what ‘it’ is. What it is, as he finds out, is his soul—The angel fits his palm over Dean’s shoulder, and pain surges through Dean’s arm, his left side searing. A blinding white light flares in the angel’s eyes and from where their skin connects. And Dean screams, tears spilling free while the angel sinks inside him, down to his core. His hands shake, body trembling even after the pain subsides and the angel’s hand drops._

_It ends with little fanfare. Dean turns and vomits onto the one patch of concrete available, bile burning his throat. Coming up for air, he turns to find the angel—gone. Dean spins around in a haze and finds the angel standing a few feet away, wings flared and at the ready, blocking out the moonlight streaming through the shattered skylights. Glass rains around him, breaking into splintered shards. In that moment, Dean has never seen anyone more beautiful and deadly, soaked in blood and brought to life once again, all from one touch._

_Said touch lingers. Ripping his shirt sleeve up, he finds a blistered handprint seared into his skin, enflamed at the edges. “What did you,” Dean gasps, “What did you do?”_

_“I touched your soul,” the angel explains, then steps closer, Dean would back away, if it wasn't for the vomit on the floor. “I can explain it to you if you’d like, but you’d probably rather know why I’m here.”_

_Dean nods without thinking. “Yeah, that’d be nice. And a hospital while you’re at it, Jesus Christ—”_

_“You’ll be fine,” the angel says. Kneeling, he adds, “My name is Castiel. You saved my life.”_

_Huh. “You got a story then, Castiel?”_

-+-

Castiel spends the morning in the motel while Dean scopes out the town. Interviews take less time when he’s on his own, but he misses Castiel like a lost limb as he goes through the motions. Castiel can schmooze his way into anyone’s home, can sweet talk answers out of even the most terrifying of people. Without him, Dean cranks up the charm and eventually gets to where he wants, with the possible location of the nest in question.

Springfield is a small town, considering. Everyone he meets knows their neighbors, knows who works where and whose children are friends, and whose husband is spending the night across town. The one thing everyone he talked to seems to agree on—something is going on in the back room at the Save A Lot, something involving closing early on Wednesday nights and a Waste Management truck loitering in the rear parking lot on the wrong day of the week.

While not initially suspicious, Dean runs with it and checks out the Save A Lot at lunch. Parked a few spots from the front entrance, he pops several fries into his mouth from the Hardee’s across the lot, chasing it with Dr. Pepper. Patrons loiter around the front of the store and walk in and out of the main doors, some with purchases, some without. Overall, a normal day, nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the Waste Management truck pulling into the far end of the lot with a shady driver and even shadier passenger at the helm. Mouth half-full of double bacon cheeseburger, Dean watches them loop around the parking lot before flipping their left blinker on and turning right, disappearing behind the strip mall.

Interesting. If he pursues it tonight, the least he’ll find is an empty storefront and overly suspicious neighbors. At the most—he might need Castiel’s help, if Castiel is up to it.

The only motel in town is the Springfield Inn, which looks less like a motel and more like a Holiday Inn without the signage. He originally booked the room for a week, but depending on how tonight goes, he may only have to stay another day or two. Castiel might appreciate the break; rain always makes him antsy, for reasons he’s never been able to explain, and Dean never presses. Rain reminds him of storms in Kansas, and a house he longs to forget.

Card key in hand, Dean jogs up the stairs and hits the landing just in time to see a flash through the window at the far end of the hall. Thunder follows shortly after, rattling the windows. The overhead lights flicker—Dean sprints to the room before the power has a chance to lock him out. Thankfully, it waits for him to step inside before it flickers, but stays on by some miracle.

Lightning flashes—Dean’s heart sinks at the body sprawled between the double beds, just as undressed as he was this morning. He drops the card key, barely even bothering to close the door before he lunges for Castiel, only to find him face down on the carpet, a hand limply clinging to the sheets. “Cas, Cas, no,” Dean sputters, dropping to his knees. He can’t move—can’t think beyond that Castiel is dead, or looks dead, or—“Cas, wake up.”

Castiel’s skin is still warm; Dean finds a faint pulse in the curve of his neck, and he lets out a shaking, hysteric sigh. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, combing his fingers through his hair.

Heart in his throat, Dean manages to roll Castiel onto his back with the finesse of a panicked thoroughbred. He elbows the bed frame, the pain radiating through his arm; he ignores and pats Castiel’s cheek. No response. “Cas, please,” he begs, breath coming in quick, shallow pants. Alive, but not quite. “Cas, c’mon, you can’t do this to me, not yet.” He seizes Castiel’s hand and places it over the scar on his shoulder. In his fantasies, Castiel snaps open his eyes and breathes, and asks why Dean is straddling him.

In reality, nothing happens. His hand goes limp, and a breath leaves Castiel’s lips, rattling on its way out. “No,” Dean whispers, then shouts, “No, you don’t get to do this! Not after the shit we’ve been through.” Thunder rumbles; Dean punches the carpet beside Castiel’s head.

Calling someone should be the last thing on his mind in this situation. He always imagined if he walked in on a body, that he’d grab his stuff and leave before the cops showed up. But this is Castiel—this is an angel. All the angels Castiel killed turned to dust after they died, but Castiel is still there, flesh and blood and bone.

He calls Sam. Out of the few numbers he has memorized, he always calls Sam first. Ripping the corded phone off the desk, Dean beats the numbers into the keypad and holds the handset to his ear. “Pick up, pick up, pick—Sammy?”

On the other end, Sam yawns, loud and obnoxious. “It’s like, nine in the morning dude, what are you—”

“Cas is dead,” Dean blurts, and Sam promptly shuts up. “Or, he might be dead, I don’t know. I just got back and he’s on the floor, and”—he holds his hand over Castiel’s nose—“he’s not breathing, and I’m freaking out, man—”

“Dean, what are you—What do you mean he’s dead? I know you said he’s falling, but what—”

“What am I gonna do? I leave him for five minutes and he fucking _stops breathing_ , and I’m—”

“Dean— _Dean_ , breathe,” Sam says. “Breathe and tell me what’s going on. Can you do that?”

“I’m—Yeah.” Dean swallows bile. “He’s—He’s got a pulse, but he won’t wake up. He’s still warm. Jesus, Sammy, it’s been a day. He didn’t kill a guy for a day and he’s _dead_ —”

“He’s not dead.” Mattress springs creak, followed by a frantic flipping of pages. One of the books he’s been collecting ever since Castiel stepped into the picture, all occultist testimonials from angelic possessions and research into physiology, just what makes the most fabled creature in the world tick. Science fiction to most people—true fact to hunters. “He’s in stasis. His body’s trying to process some kind of traumatic experience, like—”

“Losing his wings.” It makes sense, then. Last night, Castiel could barely make it out of bed without Dean’s help, and now, he’s sprawled out on the floor. “Yesterday his… His back was really bad. He kept saying his wings hurt, but I think they’re… I think they’re gone, Sammy. I think he fell.”

With those four words, Castiel blinks up at him, frantic at first, until tears work their way free, spilling into his hairline.

“Cas,” Dean says, sucking in air.

“ _Dean? Dean, what’s going on_ —”

Dean sets the handset down—throws it, really—and takes Castiel’s face in his hands. Castiel breaks, anguish rushing free in a frenzied wave; dull nails claw the sleeves of his leather jacket, tugging him closer. And Dean falls into him, wrapped up in Castiel’s sudden embrace. Castiel smells of sweat and fear. Dean can’t bear to let him go. “It’s okay,” he whispers into Castiel’s ear. “It’ll be okay, Cas.”

-+-

All around Springfield is farmland, rolling fields as far as the eye can see, so far that Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever reach the end of it. A few miles from town and with the sun setting at their backs, Dean pulls over on a service road and cranks his window down, then reaches over to do the same with Castiel’s. Humid air pours in, only slightly cooler than it was when they left. Gold paints the sky, deepening to dark blues as the night progresses.

Castiel never says a word. Doesn't do anything but sit there in the passenger seat. Dark circles color the skin beneath his eyes, and his hands shake in his lap, faint tremors that no amount of wringing will soothe. Dean tried holding them for a while; Castiel refused to look him in the eye for the entire thirty minutes.

Behind the wheel, Dean watches the sun set, leaning against the door with a leg propped up on the bench. He hangs an arm out the window and lifts it on occasion, catching the breeze blowing past. The crops in the field bow, rippling in waves. “My folks divorced, when I was a kid,” Dean says to no one in particular. Hand resting atop a thigh, he gazes at the sun, the trees dotting the horizon. “Mom tried to get custody, but dad… God, that man.” He laughs and palms his face. “He did everything he could to get us instead. Everyone knew how bad he was, but the court still sided with him.

“Sam was a baby. And I mean a baby, barely a few months old when he took off with us. I was like… four, and all of a sudden, I’m having to watch out for my brother when I can barely take care of myself. Dad used to go off on hunts and leave us at motels. Most of the time, he’d ask a neighbor to check in on us, but others… It’s like we weren’t even there.”

He sniffles, leaning his head back. “Before the divorce, I remember my mom telling me that angels were watching over me. That if I ever needed anything, if I ever felt unsafe, that I could just pray, and someone would always be there. I was… I was a kid, man. Kids believe anything their parents say. And I used to pray, all the time, but no one ever came. No one answered me.

“You know what I used to say?” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “I wanted someone to save us. I wanted someone to walk in the room and take us anywhere else. Foster care, adoption, it didn't matter. I just… I wanted my mom. And no angel was gonna change that, no matter how much of my heart I put into it.”

“At one time, we did answer prayers,” Castiel says, voice barely above a whisper. “But there were far fewer people on the planet then. Now, most of us have tuned out the wavelength.” He swallows. “I used to listen, though. Just to hear what was happening. There was so much… anguish, so much pain. Begging for forgiveness, pleading to survive… I didn’t know what to do. It’s not that we didn’t care, Dean.”

“I know.” Nodding, Dean closes his eyes. “I mean, now I know that, but back then, I was just… angry. Angry at the world, at God for putting me through this. And then you walk into my life.” A laugh. “Or fell, whatever. Point is, the last year of my life, it’s been better since you’ve been in it. And that ain’t gonna change, angel or not.”

Castiel rasps out a breath. “I don’t feel any… different,” he says. “I never noticed my Grace when I had it. It was always there, a constant, and now… I can’t tell if it’s gone or not.”

“You could try to heal me, if that’ll work?” Dean says, offering his arm. The consequence of their last hunt, a bruise on his forearm, now about the size of a quarter, yellowed and fading. Castiel handles him with care and swipes his thumb over the spot. After a moment, nothing happens—another second, and Castiel glares at his arm like it personally offended him. No sudden chill rushing down Dean’s spine, no burst of energy—nothing but skin against his own. “Nothing, huh?”

“I can feel how warm you are,” Castiel says.

Dean cocks a brow. “What, you couldn't before?”

“I never felt anything.” Castiel narrows his eyes, still petting over the bruise. “I can feel the atoms of everything I touch, or the molecules making up whatever I eat or drink, but I…” A sigh. “I know now, why you’re obsessed with touch.”

A smile splits Dean’s lips. “That good, huh?” For emphasis, Dean touches Castiel’s hair, raking his fingers over Castiel’s scalp—and Castiel melts, eyes rolling back. “So the other night, you didn’t feel any of it? Just a big ball of atoms?”

“Yes,” Castiel hisses. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

“Yeah?” Dean traces behind Castiel’s ear. “Is it working?”

Shivering, Castiel nods. “How did your search this morning go?”

Oh. Amid the panic, Dean forgot about the hunt and the nest. Even now, the details are still foggy, Castiel’s ‘death’ overriding every other thought. “Couple people around town say that there’s something weird going on at the Sav A Lot. Figure we might check it out, if you’re up to it.”

Castiel slumps further into his seat. Just looking at him, Dean feels his exhaustion. Touching him, Castiel burns hot, feverish but cooling as the hours pass, as his body adjusts to having to breathe. _What a hell of a way to fall_ , Dean thinks—only a year on earth, and Castiel has to live the rest of his life like this, with no say in the matter. The most Dean can do is help him adjust.

Stroking through Castiel’s hair keeps him calm, his breathing steady. He cries, still, not that Dean expects him to stop any time soon. “I won’t be able to help like I used to,” Castiel says, palming his face dry. “I may be more of a hindrance than anything.”

“You’ll do fine.” Dean presses into Castiel’s nape, and Castiel bites back a gasp. _Interestin_ g. “Just ‘cause you can’t get your smite on doesn’t mean you’re gonna get in the way. I mean, I’ve seen you work your way around a sword.”

Castiel drops his head with a long, drawn-out groan. “I forgot my sword.”

Dean blinks. “You forgot your sword?”

“I had two. I hid them within my Grace, and they’re—”

“Gone,” Dean sighs. That’s fine, really. Dean has plenty of other weapons Castiel can use, but none of them can really compare. Castiel’s blades could kill demons—how is he supposed to do that now? “It’s fine.” He pats Castiel’s shoulder. “Good thing I’ve got a machete with your name on it.”

-+-

Born under the Kansas sun, Dean is used to blistering heat. Most of his youth, he spent traveling the desert in the backseat of the Impala, and in his late teens, he switched to the driver’s seat when John drank himself stupid. A few years later, Dean inherited the car, and Sam headed off to college in California. But the heat always remains a constant. It follows him everywhere, like it’s ingrained into his blood, a vital part of him that can never fade.

Freezers, though—Freezers, Dean hates. And the freezer in the back of the Sav A Lot is where Dean and Castiel corner the last two vamps, all snarled, bloodied fangs and red-tinted eyes. Castiel leans against the freezer door, machete in hand while Dean leads the way a few steps ahead; Castiel took a punch to the kidney, but from what Dean can tell, he’s fine. Might piss blood later, but he’s _fine_.

Fine doesn't mean Dean can’t worry, though, and it doesn't mean he can’t take out his vengeance on the first thing that moves. One of the vampires charges, bored with idle threats, aiming straight for Dean’s jugular. Dean grapples with him and drops his machete in the process; he slings the vamp into a shelf lined with packaged meat, sending a few boxes cascading onto the floor in a clatter. The vamp lifts a clawed hand, digging it into the arm of Dean’s leather jacket—Dean reels back and slugs him in the jaw, sending him to the concrete.

In the few seconds it takes for Dean to shake his hand out, the other vampire lurches, unsure of where his intended target is. Castiel takes the initiative and stomps over, ending it with a single swipe of his blade. The body falls, the head rolls, and Castiel wipes blood from his face, smearing it across his cheek.

It shouldn't do something for Dean, but it does.

Before Dean can take a second to think about what that means, the lone survivor groans and makes to stand. Dean finishes him before he can try again, and silence envelops the freezer, save for the rumbling of the cooling system overhead.

Castiel spits blood, hopefully not his own. “Did you ever call your brother back?” he asks, toeing the body closest to him. “This morning.”

Oh, right. He should probably do that. “After we dump the bodies,” Dean decides. The other three are already outside, laid in a heap and probably bleeding all over the loading dock. “How much of that did you hear?”

Again, Castiel wipes his face. “Enough.” The tips of his ears redden. “Can we leave? The cold is unpleasant.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean tucks the bloodied machete into the loop on his belt and takes the vampire underneath the armpits. They can talk about this later, preferably in bed, or sitting outside. Anywhere that isn’t the arctic. “C’mon, before someone decides they need to restock the shelves at midnight.”

-+-

The shower runs, an idle rhythm that Dean tunes out after a while. Sitting on the toilet lid, he digs blood and dirt out from under his nails while Castiel stands under the spray, the only thing separating them a flimsy curtain that if Dean looks hard enough, he can see through. Not that he’s actively trying, but Castiel is there, within arm’s reach, and even now, Dean can’t look away.

“How’s your kidney?” Dean asks, wiping the tip of his toothpick off on his briefs. No matter how hard he scrubs, he still can’t get the worst of it out.

Castiel hums above the noise. “I think I’ll live,” he says. “I think you took the worst of it, though. I should be asking you if you’re alright.”

Objectively, Dean is. He took a harder hit the last time he went up against a siren; compared to that and the three days spent in the hospital, a blow to the head is nothing. He stitched up the cut nicely, splitting his eyebrow clear through; it’ll make a nice scar, at least. “Don’t think I have a concussion,” Dean says and flicks the toothpick into the trash. Castiel shuts off the water and reaches out from behind the curtain, groping for the towel hanging on the rack. Dean looks down at his socks, cheeks burning. “Lucky he didn't rip my neck open.”

Castiel agrees with a grunt and steps out from around the curtain. Shame-faced, Dean watches him gather up the sweatpants and t-shirt he left on the floor, every inch of skin above the waist on display. Part of him thought Castiel would look different as a human, maybe softer around the edges, a little less imposing. Looking at him now, nothing has changed. Still as tan and broad as ever, and still shameless in his nudity, especially around Dean.

One day, Dean will think about what that means. For now, he watches Castiel drop the towel and pull his pants on, loosening the elastic waistband. The shirt, he doesn’t bother with, not immediately. Leaning against the tile wall, Castiel folds his arms and crosses an ankle over the other.

“You didn't ask me how it happened,” Castiel says in the silence, tossing his shirt onto the lip of the sink. “How I fell.”

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t care about that. All I care about is that you’re okay, okay?” Jaw tight, Dean looks up. “I could probably go my whole life without knowing, ‘cause either way, it’s not gonna make me feel any better.” He laughs. “I thought you were dead, man. I walked in and you were on the floor, and my first thought was, I left you for an hour. And that’s an hour I didn't have to say goodbye. You know how that feels?”

Rather than reply, Castiel kneels, palms resting over Dean’s knees. Dean swallows and breathes through his nose, fighting back the inexplicable urge to pull Castiel closer. “You don't think I’ve had the same thoughts?” Castiel asks. His knees brush the insides of Dean’s ankles. “Every hunt, I watch someone put their hands on you, or I watch them break your bones, split your skin. And every time, I wonder whether this time, I won’t be able to bring you back. I can’t do that anymore, Dean. You’re strong, and you’re resilient, but you won’t live forever. And incidentally, neither will I.”

Throat thick, Dean nods and struggles to find the right words. “Sounds like you’re trying to get me to give up.”

“No.” Castiel presses his forehead to the inside of Dean’s knee. “All I’m asking you to do is to be careful. I can’t… I don’t want to lose you.” A sigh, wet in his throat. “I don’t like this.”

Dean frowns. “Like what?”

“Feeling,” Castiel decides. Feeling—Sometimes, Dean wishes he couldn't either.

“You sure you’re alright?” Dean tests the waters and reaches out, threading his fingers through Castiel’s hair. Castiel leans into him, eyes fluttering shut. “We tried so hard, and… how can you just accept it like this, that you’re human?”

Castiel squeezes his knee tighter, then palms Dean’s outer thigh. “It’s better than being a demon, I suppose,” he murmurs. “I think I’m in shock. It’ll hit me one day, but for now, I’m… fine.” He blinks up at Dean, the blue in his eyes so surreal, like staring into the ocean itself. “It helps, having you here.”

Fuck— _Fuck_.

“Well, shucks.” Dean flicks his ear, fighting down the panic flooding his veins. Castiel wants to stay here—Castiel wants to be with him, most of all. Out of everyone on the planet, and Castiel wants _him_. “Sure you can’t find some other sap to waste your time with?”

Castiel’s stubble rubs against the inside of his thigh, and Dean nearly bites his tongue off. “I think you’ll do,” he says, utterly sincere. “I like you best.”

Dean blinks. _Well, that’s something_.

-+-

“So he fell,” Sam says on the other end of the line, breaking into a yawn. “And then you took him on a hunt like, two hours later?”

“In my defense, it was ten hours, and he said yes.” Dean leans against the bannister and looks out over the pool, cellphone propped up between his shoulder and cheek. Two in the morning, and humidity still sits thick in the air. Sweat beads under the collar of Dean’s shirt, growing increasingly sticky the longer he stands outside. “He seems… fine, though. I thought he’d be more broken up about. I mean, you spend your whole life as an angel, and now you’re forced to slum it as a human? And with me, no less.”

“Don’t put yourself down like that,” Sam says. Dean can feel him roll his eyes through the phone. “And everyone handles loss differently, Dean. When dad died, you jumped from mourning straight into anger, but that doesn’t mean Castiel has to be either. He’s not like us, he didn’t grow up in the life.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t really get a say either.” Blowing out a breath, Dean looks up at the sky, stars pinpricking the abyss. “He got kicked out because he did what God told him to, love creation and all that jazz. And the angels didn't buy it. And now he’s stuck with me, and he’s… I’d be pissed, Sammy. I’d be ready to tear it all down if someone did that to me.”

Sam sighs on the other end. Sheets rustle, mattress springs creak. “I know. But don’t put that on him, man. The last thing he needs is you projecting your issues.”

“I do not have issues,” Dean lies through his teeth. “I’m just saying—”

“No, you’re not ‘just saying.’ Look, Dean, I know you had to pull most of the weight in this family because of dad, but you have to own up to that. He’s not me, okay? You don’t need to help him, he’s gotta figure things out on his own. Just be there for him, listen to him. I just…” He stops. “You’re happy with him, Dean. The way you talk about him, you really care about him. And I don’t want what happened between us to happen to you two.”

What happened—what an understatement. The minute Sam got into Stanford, he ran before Dean—and their father, more importantly—could stop him. Dean resented him up until a few months before Castiel fell into his life, when Dean ran into him on Baker Beach by complete accident. All it took was one fight in broad daylight, tension snapped and eased by a night of drinking and apologies that somehow stuck when the sun rose. Dean took off into the sunset—Sam called to make sure he got to his next motel, and life moved on.

But the scars still remain, even a year later. Idly, Dean flexes his fingers, curling his nails into his fist. “You know I’m never gonna stop being sorry, right?” he says, head bowed. “You didn’t deserve it. Castiel doesn’t deserve it.”

“No, Dean. _You_ didn't deserve it. You were a kid, you didn’t need the responsibility dad put on you. But you’ve gotta come to terms with it, okay?” Sam laughs, exhaustion lingering long after the sound fades. “Maybe we both didn’t.”

Dean exhales until his lungs spasm. “Maybe we didn’t,” he echoes on the inhale. _And Cas doesn’t either_.

-+-

Somewhere outside of Chattanooga, Dean finds a faded billboard for a diner and makes the several-mile trek through the wilderness on instinct. One of the only decent things his father taught him, that the best meals could be found off the most unsuspecting exits, and clandestine conversations could be had in peace. More the former—the only conversations he and his father ever had normally resulted in him being degraded in public.

With Castiel is different. With Castiel, Dean can sit across the table from him and just sit in silence, at peace in the moment. Castiel twirls his stir stick as he reads the menu, and Dean watches a buck in the pines with a rack a hunter would be proud of. The place has seen better days, with its wooden siding and parking lot more dirt that gravel, but Dean has eaten in worse, and the waitress is more than charming when she takes their orders.

Supposedly, they don’t get a lot of traffic outside of locals, and said locals are at the only church down the street. More than enough time to eat and scram before the lunch crowd swarms the place.

“So,” Dean ventures as soon as the waitress passes them their food, “you’re human now, no strings attached. Now what?”

Castiel mulls over the question between bites of eggs slathered in syrup. _Might as well let him figure out what he likes_ , Dean tells himself just seconds before Castiel attempts to upend the syrup container onto his plate. “I’m not particularly interested in going to amusement parks,” Castiel says, his gaze distant. “Drugs don’t interest me, though I supposed I’d like to get high once, just to see how it feels.”

“Hits everyone differently,” Dean says. He slices a bit of sausage and gathers up the last of his pancakes, shoving both into his mouth. If he had to rank the food here, it would hit somewhere squarely in the middle: bland, but with enough flavor that he wouldn’t mind coming back if he ever ended up in Tennessee again. “I get tired, mostly. Spent the night with a guy once and the next morning, he said I begged him to cuddle. Hands and knees, everything.” His cheeks color. “Slept for more than a couple hours that time.”

A smile flits across Castiel’s lips. “You crave physical touch.”

Dean huffs. “Sam says it’s ‘cause I never got hugged as a kid. You know who my first kiss was?” He pokes his fork at Castiel. “A girl named Stacy. Didn’t know her last name and never found out, but she had these eyes, like you were looking right at the sun, they were so bright. Her folks were in the Army, and she was only in town a few weeks, but we hit it off, y’know? Both freshmen in high school, didn’t really know anyone else.

“Anyway, one day she invites me to hang out after school, says we can’t go to her place ‘cause her dad’s home. We just hung out under the bleachers and she… kissed me.” He blinks, turning his face to the ceiling. “And I cried. I’m talking big, ugly tears, man, so not manly.”

Castiel’s grin only dims slightly. A boot brushes Dean’s underneath the table, hooked around the back of his Achilles. “You can touch me, if you want. I’m not trying to starve you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“What—no, dude.” Dean laughs and rubs his eye. “The last thing you’re doing is starving me.” _You’ve been the best company I’ve ever had_ sits on his tongue. “You’re human now, man. I’m not gonna put my baggage on you like that.”

“It’s not baggage.” Castiel tugs his foot, out of sight of the waitress as she comes by to refill their drinks. “It’s your life, Dean. Your needs. If you want something of me, just ask.”

“Same. I mean, same for you, if you…” Dean stutters. “If you need something, all you gotta do is ask.” Castiel nods and turns his attention to his plate while Dean wipes his hands with a napkin. “Alright, so, your list. What else do you wanna do?”

“I’d like to have sex, I think,” Castiel says, nonchalant, like blurting _that_ out is a common occurrence. Dean chokes on his Coke. “You always seem to enjoy it. I’ve heard you through the walls sometimes.”

 _Fuck_. Of course Castiel hears him—Castiel waits outside every time, and neither of them speak a word of it afterward. But the thought of Castiel wanting to follow in his footsteps? Dean bites his cheek to keep from screaming. “That’s—That’s cool,” he gasps, beating his chest. “I mean, sex is great. You got a preference? Y’know, tits, ass, both?”

Castiel shrugs and brings his coffee up, pressing the rim of the mug to his lips. “I think I’d have to try both first before I make my decision.”

Dean breathes in, a long, labored inhale that makes him wonder if it really is possible to over-inflate his lungs. Letting it out doesn’t help calm his nerves, but it’s a start. “Good to know,” he croaks. Castiel lifts a brow. “Tell you what then, next bar I hit up, you can tag along. Or not, I’m not gonna rush you—”

“Dean.” Castiel taps his foot. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready, okay? I know you’re worried for my sake, but I’m fine. Trust me.” He stops. “Can you trust me?”

Shakily, Dean nods, a hand in his hair. “Yeah,” he decides. “Yeah, Cas. Of course.”

“Good.” Smiling, Castiel pulls his foot away, leaving Dean’s ankle cold. “Do you have a case in mind, or are we driving?”

That’s a good question—Where are they going? “I think we’re just driving,” Dean wonders aloud. “Don’t think we’ve made it to the beach yet, what about that?”

Castiel agrees, his eyes shining in the mid-morning sun. “I’d like that.”

-+-

Rain moves in south of Montgomery, the sun replaced by clouds as black as night. The wind whips, slamming into the side of the car and nearly forcing them off the two-lane and into the shoulder. Dean white knuckles the steering wheel until he finds an overpass; the pines bracketing the road bend in the gusts, branches snapping and splintering onto the ground.

“Okay, I want you to listen very carefully to me,” Dean says, heart in his throat. “Cas, you listening?”

“I’m listening,” Castiel answers all in one syllable.

A video flashes before Dean’s eyes, of a family escaping the oncoming wrath of a tornado under an overpass. Sheltering from the storm, the winds gusted underneath, throwing debris from the roadside through the gap. Somehow, they escaped without injury. Dean has never been that lucky in his life. “Never do what we’re about to do here, okay? That’s number one.” And Dean pulls over beneath the bridge, as far away from the road as he can manage. “And two, I need you to get in the ditch.”

“The ditch?” Castiel balks. “Why, what’s—”

“Just do it, alright?”

Seatbelt thrown off, Dean rushes out of the front seat. Castiel follows in haste, and ducks into the drainage ditch a few feet from the foot of the bridge. Dean jumps in after and wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, dragging him down, forehead in the dirt. The last time Dean hid like this, Sam was barely out of high school and they were in Oklahoma, not the backwoods of Alabama. In Oklahoma, Dean could see the storm coming, could see the funnel drop long before he took shelter.

Here, Dean doesn’t know where it is. But he hears it—the distant roar, trees snapping like twigs as it moves. Beside him, Castiel shivers and covers the back of his head with his hands; Dean holds him close, fingers pressed into the meat of Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he shouts above the wind. “I got you, okay?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. Dean feels him shudder, then nod, and Dean holds on tighter, keeping him close. For what feels like hours, Dean listens to the roar of the wind, hail pelting the ground and the back of his coat. Violently, Castiel shivers, and doesn't until long after the danger clears. The storm subsides, and rain fills in behind it. Branches litter the ground, some lying in the roadway, but none large enough to block their path. It’s over—they’re safe.

Sitting up, Castiel shakes the dirt and debris from his hair. Rain drips from the tips, running down his face. Dean blinks and shoves down the urge to clean his face, to wipe the stray drops clinging to his lashes. “I don't think I like being human anymore,” Castiel mutters.

Dean can’t help but laugh, fueled by adrenaline and hysteria. “Honestly? Me too.”

-+-

Fort Walton Beach winds up as the sun goes down, the last of the year’s summer tourists making their way to the shore with coolers in their hands, filled with more than enough to get them plastered. With a drink of his own, Dean sits on the parking block outside of their room at the Holiday Lodge and watches the cars drive by on the highway. Humidity tickles his skin, sweat prickling in places he hates.

It’s a nice day, all things considered. Clear skies, a cool breeze in the shade, and the smell of salt in the air. Infinitely better compared to a few hours before.

Castiel joins him after a while, dressed in knee length khakis and a muscle shirt reading _I_ _♥ FWB,_ dyed in every color of the rainbow. He looks every bit the tourist Dean expected, down to the dollar flip flips and the bracelet adorning his ankle. Somehow, it makes him even more human, more approachable—the exact opposite of how Dean saw him a year ago, when he could barely stand to be in the same room with him. Now, all Dean wants to do is touch him, to enjoy the quiet moments with him, to…

 _Shit_ , Dean thinks. He downs a large swallow before coming up for air, hoping the alcohol takes the thought off his mind. It doesn’t.

“You okay?” Dean asks and sets his beer between his feet. Looking over, he watches Castiel sit on the black next to him, their knees brushing. “Haven’t really talked since we got back in the car.”

Castiel stretches his legs out, bare heels to the asphalt. “I’m fine,” he says, head hung low. “How did you know it was coming?”

A sixth sense, Dean could tell him. In reality, he’s run from more storms in his lifetime than he can count, but only bailed out of his car in maybe half. “You gotta watch the sky,” Dean says, bringing his glass to his lips. “You can usually tell, if you’re in an area like we were. Clouds start turning colors, the sky starts spinning, and if the hail starts, then it’s close. But it’s different out in the plains, when there’s nothing around but empty roads.”

Nodding along, Castiel holds onto his bottle by the cap, dangling it between his knees. He won’t drink it—didn’t like it when Dean bought him one right after they got back in the car—but it’s the gesture that counts. “I used to create thunderstorms,” Castiel says. He looks out at the parking lot. “I always marveled at the power they contained, just how one bolt of electricity could power an entire town if harnessed correctly. I’ve felt their energy, the sheer terror, but… never like this.”

“Never when the adrenaline kicks in,” Dean adds. Castiel nods and lets out a sigh. None too smoothly, Dean brings an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and pulls him in, letting Castiel lean against his side. “Well, good news is, we’ve got a couple days here to crash. Figured we’ll hit the beach, check out what parties are going on, what d’you think?”

A quiet smile flutters across Castiel’s lips, dying with the sunset light. “I’d like that,” he says, and rests his head atop Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s heart stutters, fingers clammy where they touch Castiel’s skin, and only after the tension eases does he breathe again.

 _I want this_ , he thinks, closing his eyes. _I think I want him_.

-+-

Most of the activity begins to die down around one in the morning, after the city lights dwindle and restaurants all shutter their doors. Summer warmth hangs on after the sun falls, soaking the back of Dean’s neck when he wakes. The air conditioner is faulty at best, pumping lukewarm air valiantly, no matter how many times he kicked it before giving up. Across the space between their beds, Castiel dozes with his eyes half-open, occasionally kicking his feet or palming his face.

An idea crosses Dean’s mind, of somewhere they can sneak out to before last call. “Hey,” he whispers and sits up, leaning on an elbow. “You wanna go hit up a bar?”

Castiel rolls onto his back and presses his thumbs into his eyes. “If it’ll tire me out, yes.”

A better answer than Dean expected. In a rush, Dean climbs out from under the sheets and reaches for the first set of clean clothes he can find—a pair of jeans and a gray Henley—and tosses another set to Castiel, the pants ripped at the knees and the flannel missing all of its buttons. Castiel pulls it off better than he does, shirttails tucked into his waistband, exposing just enough of his chest to be noticeable. Dean fidgets with Castiel’s collar and trusses his hair, fighting back the heat rising up his neck.

 _Beautiful_ , Dean thinks, mouth dry. _I don’t deserve him_.

“I sense ulterior motives here,” Castiel says, a wry glint in his eyes. “Is this really about visiting a bar?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean laughs. “Nothing else to do at this time of night, and we’re both awake. Why not?”

Castiel looks him over, but doesn’t comment. He does, though, undo the buttons on Dean’s Henley, letting it sit open to expose the tattoo on his pec. “Quid pro quo,” he says. His hand lingers, warmth spilling through the fabric. “Are we walking?”

The place they end up is only a few blocks from their motel, a hole in the wall with no sign outside except for a sandwich board reading the cocktail specials with a large 21+ underlined and circled multiple times. No one asks for a cover at the door, and no one checks for IDs. Dean and Castiel wander in unnoticed amid the music and neon, blending in with the crowd of twenty-somethings. Everything reeks of alcohol and sweat, permeating everything Dean touches—namely, bodies as he passes by. No one calls him out, no one bats an eye; a woman waves him over from across the room, with skin as dark as burnt umber and even darker eyes, and Dean resists, but only just.

He eventually worms his way into an unoccupied corner, Castiel in tow, and takes Castiel by the shoulder. “Rules are simple. Don’t take anything anyone tries to hand you, don’t go anywhere without telling me, and don’t go to the bathroom.”

Castiel raises a brow. “I went before we left—”

“No, no, like,” Dean waves his hand in the direction of the far end of the bar, “if someone tries to drag you to the bathroom, don’t go in. College kids get into some dangerous stuff, I’m talking hard drugs. Stuff that’ll fuck you up for weeks.”

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Castiel says, mainly out of curiosity.

This close, Dean smells the spearmint on his breath, can almost taste the humidity from Castiel’s lips. Castiel standing so close doesn’t help. _Maybe this wasn't the best idea after all_. “I’ve got experience,” he says with a wink. “You know how to dance?”

As it turns out, Castiel does—or, enough that he ends up being passed around on the dance floor by anyone and everyone who can get their hands on him. Dean, meanwhile, wades around the edges and dances with a few girls and fewer guys, until he winds his way to the woman who caught his eye earlier. She reaches out for him before he can reach her, her nails caressing his forearm and sliding up to his bicep. The scent of roses clings behind her ears, intoxicating.

“You look lost,” she says with a hum. “Name’s Halley. You a local?”

“Just drifting through,” Dean says, easy. Stranger or not, Dean likes her, from the way she smells to her touch. Shivers run up his spine while she caresses him, eventually palming his nape.

“Saw you and your friend walk in,” she says, tilting her head in Castiel’s direction. “What’ll it take for you to introduce me?”

 _Oh_. “Well, I’m offended,” Dean mocks, a hand to his chest. Halley laughs, throwing her head back. “I’m obviously the better looking of the two of us.”

“You’re both very pretty,” Halley says, looking him over. “But the two of you’d be too much to handle. Now, if you’re into watching…” She traces her nail down his shirt, then back up. “It wouldn't take much convincing.”

Dean moans, the sound working its way up his throat before he can even bother to fight it back. “I—I think I’d be into that,” he says, a bit more pitchy than he intended. Halley laughs anyway. “Should probably ask if there’s anything you’re not into—”

“I’m only in town for the night,” Halley purrs. “Could use strong men like you two to show me a good time.”

It’s a rehash of every cheesy line Dean has ever said, and this time, he falls for it, all too soon enveloped in Halley’s warmth and the softness of her kiss. She tastes just as sweet as he imagined, and touches him like she might be in love with him. He knows the game, has become a master at it over the years, and Halley plays just as good as him, her tough possessive, lusting.

A hand touches Dean’s shoulder from behind, a weight he’s all too familiar with. Reluctantly, he parts from Halley and glances over, finding Castiel lingering close with lipstick on his neck and cheek, and a trail of it draped over his collarbone. Red flushes his cheek, and he smiles, high on endorphins and kissed stupid. Selfishly, Dean wants him all to himself. “Looks like someone’s the life of the party,” Dean says with mirth, taking Castiel by the shoulder. “Halley, this is Cas.”

“Cas,” Halley repeats, sly.

Appraising Castiel, she leans in and kisses him without preamble. And worst of all, Castiel kisses her back, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, strong and thick. Dean remembers, hazily, that Halley kissed him just a minute before. Castiel must taste him on her lips, the bitterness of a snuck cigarette and alcohol, and he wishes he could trade places with Halley, could feel Castiel kiss him, just once.

Tonight might be his chance, if things work out in his favor. Jealousy twists his gut— _If only_.

-+-

Dean has only ever played voyeur a few times in his life, most often unwittingly, others by invitation. Once, he drunkenly watched his friend fumble his way through a half-assed attempt at eating out a woman before giving up and passing out on the floor.

Castiel isn’t Wayne, though. Castiel knows what he’s doing, inexperienced or otherwise. Seated at the motel desk, Dean watches Halley arch her back, both hands in Castiel’s hair while Castiel tongues at her folds, making absolutely no qualms about how much he loves it. Idly, Castiel ruts against the bedspread, jeans still on but undone, mostly in Halley’s haste as soon as Dean closed the door. Castiel came against the wall, Halley working his cock down her throat, no gag reflex in sight.

And now, Castiel returns the favor, bringing Halley off again and again with just his tongue and his fingers, all while Dean watches. Hands tucked under his thighs, Dean bites his lip as Halley comes again, loud and winded as she peaks. Her knuckles blanch where she holds onto Castiel, and her hips lift, riding Castiel’s tongue with such single-minded focus that he can’t help but be proud. In the lamplight, he notices the slick dripping from Castiel’s chin, probably painting his lips and clinging to his tongue. Dean’s cock gives a twitch, desperate for attention—attention neither of them intend to give him.

“Fuck,” Halley pants after she comes down. Forcibly, she pulls Castiel up by his hair and drags him into a kiss; she shoves her hand down the back of Castiel’s pants, shoving his jeans down. “Get these off, I’m gonna ride you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Castiel answers, and falls onto his back.

Halley grabs the condom from the nightstand while Castiel yanks his jeans off, tossing them to the other side of the bed. In the year they’ve known each other, Dean has never seen Castiel hard; sure, his dick was always sizeable even soft, but seeing it like this, his mouth waters with want, and his own cock fills out further, pressing against his zipper.

Dean wants— _too much_.

“It’s gonna be so good,” Halley croons and swings a leg over Castiel’s hips. She rips open the foil with her teeth and slides on the rubber, afterward slicking it with the wetness painting the inside of her thighs. “You’re gonna feel so good, baby, promise you. You want this?”

“Yes,” Castiel repeats. He smooths up her stomach and palms her breast, thumbing her peaked nipple until she writhes. “Yes, ma’am.”

Halley doesn’t make a show of it—Dean would probably pass out if she did—and lines herself up, rubbing the head of Castiel’s cock against her slit. She slides down in one smooth glide, and Castiel groans, long and low in his throat, his hips lifting up to meet her. “That’s it, baby,” Halley says, bracing her hands on Castiel’s pecs. Castiel clings to her hips, his eyes pinched shut. “That’s it, baby, c’mon. Gonna give that cock a workout.”

Dean holds his breath while Halley moves, barely wasting time. She glides effortlessly up and down Castiel’s cock, split wide where he thrusts into her, her wetness spilling down the length of him. Panting, she reaches up to cup her breasts, head to the ceiling—while Castiel stares at Dean, blue eyes locked onto his own.

 _This isn’t supposed to hurt like this_ , Dean thinks. He isn’t supposed to be jealous over his best friend, isn’t supposed to wish that he was in Halley’s place, taking Castiel to the root. Feverish, he palms himself over his jeans; Castiel thrusts up and white-knuckles Halley’s skin, a strangled moan wrenching itself free. “That’s it, baby, give it to me,” Halley says, but Dean doesn’t hear her.

Shutting himself in the bathroom might not be the best idea, but it works—somewhat. Behind his eyelids, he can still see them, Castiel flipping Halley onto her back and hoisting her legs high while Halley works her clit, bringing herself off for what must be the fourth time. Dean bites his lip to the point of bruises, struggling to drown out the noise from the other side of the door. Headboard thumping against the wall, Halley’s screams, and above them all, Castiel coming with a long, stifled groan.

Halley holds him, whispers praises into his ear. Shame and arousal curdle Dean’s gut, neither of them doing much to kill his erection. If anything, it only makes him harder, takes him higher. The quiet is a godsend, accompanied only by the sounds of kissing and shifting bedsprings. At some point, the bathroom door opens and clicks shut—and a warm hand covers his own, soon taking its place.

“Come with me,” Castiel whispers, lips gracing Dean’s ear. Swallowing, Dean shakes his head. “Come with us.”

“I can’t,” Dean says. Castiel kisses his throat; his cock jumps against Castiel’s hand. “It’s not—We’re not like that, Cas. This is your thing—”

“And I want you to be a part of it,” Castiel says. An open invitation, one Dean wouldn't normally accept. Except, Castiel takes his hand and brings it to his lips. All Dean can do is obey. “Come with me, Dean.”

With a shuddering nod, Dean agrees. “Promise me I won’t regret this?”

“You won’t.” Castiel seals it with a kiss, and drags Dean back into the room.

-+-

In his early twenties, Dean never really stuck around to be on the receiving end of a morning after. Most nights after his partner passed out, he wrenched his way free and ran, leaving no trace that he was ever there in the first place. Most mornings, he fell elbow-deep into the next hunt; others, he fled town before the sun rose.

Never in his life has he ever woken up with a person in his bed, very much naked and very much asleep. Staring up at the ceiling, Dean palms his face and avoids the sliver of light pouring in from the gap between the curtains. At his side, Castiel curls around him, nose pressed to the scar on his shoulder, like somehow, touching it will make them closer, will make sense of what happened.

What happened is an understatement. What happened, Dean will never forget, even if he tries. Castiel being here only confirms it, along with the ache in his thighs. Sweat clings unpleasantly to his skin, brought on by the now-dead air conditioner, silent beneath the window.

Despite everything, the morning is peaceful, save for the faint noise of traffic picking up on the highway and the occasional car pulling into the strip mall parking lot. Castiel breathes, slow and even, refusing to wake even when Dean touches his hip. Still warm—still naked.

Vaguely, Dean remembers Halley leaving around three, taking her clothes with her and kissing them both in gratitude. After that, Dean fell onto the cleaner of the two beds, and Castiel apparently followed and decided to use Dean as a pillow. Not that Dean minds, but the longer Castiel lies there, the more Dean thinks. Remembers, more importantly, how warm Castiel’s hands felt on him, how his lips tasted when they kissed. The heft of Castiel’s cock against his own, and the sting of his fingers when they pushed inside. Just his fingers—Dean shot off the moment Castiel breached him, and Halley came just watching them, and dragged Dean between her legs.

After that, his memories grow fuzzy. The one constant, that Castiel is still here, and they’re alone, the same as it has been for a year. Save for the stink of sex clinging to their skin, and Castiel’s lips on his scarred shoulder. A brief moment of peace—then panic.

“Dean,” Castiel says and bolts upright, wrenching away.

On instinct, Dean chases after him, grappling for Castiel’s arm. Castiel calms, but only after some coaxing. “You’re good,” Dean murmurs, dragging Castiel down. Graceless, Castiel falls, face buried in the sheets. “Cas, you’re good, okay? Told you, no regrets.”

“You only said for you,” Castiel says, muffled. “I didn't take into account how I felt at the time.”

Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s hip, fingers teasing the small of his back. “We were horny. Things happen, but that doesn’t mean we gotta…” He stops, chews his lip. “Cas, what are we?”

Castiel turns his head, creases lightly embedded into the side of his face. One of his eyes sticks shut, squinting open. “I’m under the assumption that sex is inconsequential for you,” he says, fisting his eye. “One-night stands, you call it.”

“You think—” Sitting up, Dean collects himself before he speaks, before he does something stupid like blurt out his feelings. The silence lasts two seconds before the words spill free. “You think you’re a one-night stand? After all the shit we’ve been through, you really think that’s what this was? ‘Cause, baby, I don't let anyone touch my ass without three dates and five shots.”

A frown furrows Castiel’s brow. “I’ve seen you sleep with men for less. What makes me any different?”

“Because you’re different,” Dean says. Shame heats his face, growing even brighter with the look Castiel gives him. Something between shock and horror paints Castiel’s face, neither of which Dean wants to think about again. “You’re just… different, man. Don’t mean anything more than that.”

Castiel cocks a brow. A question floats on his lips, one Dean doesn’t want to answer. Not without alcohol in his system, or a door between them. Looking at Castiel makes parsing his thoughts harder, makes the hatred in his gut spring forth. Not for Castiel, but for himself. _How do I always end up here_?

“I’m different,” Castiel reiterates. Again, he rubs his face before rolling onto his back, blinking blearily at the ceiling. “I’ve always been different, Dean. I don’t see how that has anything to do with our… relationship.”

“It just does, okay? Jesus.” Without sparing a second glance, Dean climbs out of bed and fishes for his jeans on the floor. He finds them under the blankets strewn across the floor, along with his boxer-briefs and discarded shirt. Better to hide in the bathroom than continue the discussion. Better to hide than face the fact that Castiel might be—just might be—it for him. “I’m getting a shower. I’ll save you some water.”

“Dean,” Castiel calls—

But Dean shuts the door and leaves him there, basking in the darkness. Later—Later, he’ll come up with an explanation, will apologize and make it up to Castiel. For now, Dean thumps his head against the door and blows out a breath, and waits for his heart to settle.

 _I don’t love him_ , he lies to himself. It helps—some.

-+-

Humidity clings to everything it touches, namely Dean’s back while he sits on the beach, the barest edge of the waves lapping at his toes. Leaning back on his arms, he watches jet skis fly past, the occasional gull landing close by, expecting food. Around him, a few locals make their way onto the beach and loiter, bringing their kids before the mid-afternoon college rush starts.

For the moment, Dean enjoys the quiet and relaxes in the sun, uncaring of how baked he might feel later when he finally steps into the shade. That, and Castiel beside him, dressed in nothing but swim trunks and those same tacky flip flops. Red paints the tip of his ears; maybe they should’ve bought sunscreen after all.

Storm clouds linger on the horizon, never pushing toward the shore. Occasionally, lightning touches the water, but no sound follows, overshadowed by the surf and the screams of children and cars. Admittedly, there are quieter beaches in Florida, but one has its advantages. Namely, a decent driving distance to the beach on Okaloosa Island, and no one to bother them at eleven in the morning.

“You know how to swim?” Dean asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Beside him, Castiel nods. “Not gonna sink like a lead weight, are you?”

“I’m fairly buoyant,” Castiel says. He digs his heels into the sand as the water rushes up, dragging him deeper.

Dean watches him wiggle his toes, each digit long and slender, probably longer than his own if he wanted to compare. Looking at him, he looks all too human, at peace in his skin and no longer bursting at the seams. Unbidden, Dean leans closer and brushes their shoulders together, just because he can. And to his shock, Castiel does the same, their pinkies brushing atop the burning sand.

“You sure you’re really human?” he asks, earning a sideways glance from Castiel. “’Cause I dragged your ass out of a lake once. You sank like a rock.”

“In my defense, I had water in my feathers,” Castiel huffs and turns his head. Dean bites back a laugh. “I highly doubt I’d drown here, not with the lifeguards watching.”

 _And me_ , Dean almost says. He takes the chance to look around and spots the one lifeguard on this stretch of beach, a man in his late twenties with golden, freckled skin and a head full of red hair. He could probably bench press Dean easily—maybe another time. “Then c’mon,” he says and stands, offering his hand. “Barely noon and it’s already boiling out here.”

Castiel takes his hand and follows him into the surf, never once bothering to break contact. Dean flushes, and not just from the sun. Anyone could walk up and see them, could start pointing fingers or calling names; instead, all Dean hears is a flock of seagulls swooping down into the water, and two teenagers splashing a ways away. Water rushes around his ankles when he steps in, pleasantly warm and inviting. So unlike the beaches in California, or the Atlantic coast whenever the occasional case drags him there. Here, he could spend all day in the water, if the inevitable sunburn wasn't a factor.

The wind picks up marginally after a while, offering a brief reprieve to the heat; clouds begin to pass over, blocking out the sun. “I’ve stood here before, years ago,” Castiel says idly, treading further into the surf. Dean stops once the water reaches above his waist, the darkness of the drop-off looming a few feet away. “Not in this spot, but along the shore. I used to watch the storms when no one was around. I found it… quiet. Peaceful, away from the noise of Heaven.” He rakes his fingers through the water, gathering up stray seaweed and tossing it away. “Until I came here, I was beginning to think the sounds of death and weaponry were normal.”

“’Til it got quiet,” Dean adds. Castiel nods, then sinks down, his head disappearing under a wave. He surfaces shortly after, hair plastered to his head and a shell stuck in the strands; brushing it away, Dean strokes behind Castiel’s ear and watches his eyes flutter. “You sure you’re fine?” he asks. “I mean, it’s not like you had a choice. You got banished, Cas, you’re allowed to be pissed.”

Castiel opens his eyes partially, his gaze downward. “I’m tired of anger,” he admits, quiet. “I’m tired of fighting to survive, I’m tired of wondering every morning if today will be my last. Here, I don’t have to worry about that, not with…” A breath. “Not as long as you’re here.”

Oh— _Oh_. Breath caught, Dean clears his throat and struggles not to choke on his tongue. “You could get hit by a car,” he says, trying for levity. “Or get sick, or die in your sleep, and then what?”

Castiel cocks his head. “Then I die. But my death won’t be in vain. I’ve lived a decent life, Dean. A long, unhappy life, and I’m willing to put in the effort to keep living the way I’ve wanted to for as long as I can remember. Angel or human doesn’t change that.” Looking out over the surf, Castiel watches the incoming storms. “I know you think of me as some untouchable being, but I’m not. I never have been. Humans idealize the divine to the point where even looking us in the eye is blasphemy. But you’re the first person who’s looked at me and not regretted it. You touch me,” he fits his hand over Dean’s scarred shoulder, “and you mean it.

“I don’t regret last night,” Castiel finishes, his touch slipping away. Dean grabs him before he lets go, dovetailing their fingers together. “Every second I’ve been at your side is a second I never would’ve seen, had you not walked in that barn.”

Dean hugs him, before the thought even crosses his mind that someone might be watching. He buries his face in Castiel’s neck anyway, inhaling the scent of salt and sweat, and hisses when Castiel touches his sunburnt back. “Hate it when you’re sappy,” he says, only to hear Castiel laugh. “I’m not good with this… feelings thing. I’m trying, but it’s…”

“I know,” Castiel says, calm as ever. Hot breath warms Dean’s temple, accompanied by the wet press of lips to his skin. “You don’t have to say anything.”

A shiver rips up Dean’s spine; he clings to Castiel tighter, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. Holding Castiel in the daylight is so much different than at night. Here, he feels every inch of Castiel against him, feels the rise and fall of his chest, the steady thrum of his beating heart.

“I’m freaked out,” Dean says after a minute. Finally, he pulls away and wraps his arms around himself, trying to contain Castiel’s lingering warmth. “There was this girl—Cassie. I’d known her in one of my high schools, and I loved her, like I’ve never loved anyone, and she left. Her dad packed her up and left town in the middle of the night, and it hurt like hell. And I don’t want—How do I know this isn’t gonna be the same thing? You’re so much better than me, you’re gonna wake up one morning and decide I’m not worth it, and—”

Castiel tastes like salt and seaweed, a strange combination Dean chases when Castiel kisses him once, twice. A strong hand rests over Dean’s nape, while he threads through Dean’s hair with the other, tugging lightly at the strands. Dean opens to him, lost in the press of Castiel’s tongue and sweating skin, and moans, his fingers slipping down Castiel’s back.

Dean lies on daily basis, some about his profession, mostly to stay out of trouble—Castiel, he could never lie to. “Back at the diner,” he says as he pulls away, licking at his lower lip, “the angels said I needed to take care of you, but didn't say why.”

Low, Castiel hums and presses a kiss to the spot beneath Dean’s ear. “Do you understand now?”

Thunder rumbles at the edge of the horizon. “I think so,” he says, hiding his face again. Castiel traces the ridges of his spine, and Dean shivers—only from the wind.

-+-

Of the few times in his life Dean has woken up in bodily fluids, none of them have been red and left his mouth tasting like copper. Blinking awake, he squints against the mid-afternoon light and looks down at his arm, currently soaked in red from his bicep to his elbow. What hasn’t dried drips onto the pillow, enough to effectively ruin the fabric and leave the cleaning staff wondering why the room is short one pillowcase.

“Fuck,” he groans and sits up, dislodging Castiel’s arm around his waist. Another useless nap; at least his other naps never left him bleeding. Dean makes his way to the bathroom and winces at the sight of his face: blood drips lazily from his nose, most of it already dried and leaving his chin and half of his face dyed maroon. Stress, maybe, or just pure stupidity—maybe Castiel punched him mid-dream.

Whatever it is, Dean chalks it up to his raging sunburn and washes what he can off his face, letting scarlet flow down the drain. Holding a wet rag to his nose only stems the flow for a moment before it starts trickling again, wet and entirely unpleasant.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Dean finds Castiel blinking up at him, his initial disinterest turning to concern in less than a second. “Dean,” he drawls and makes his way to his knees. From the bedside, he reaches up and pulls the rag from Dean’s hands and presses his fingers to Dean’s nose. Nothing happens. Not the cool rush of Grace, not a snap of bone. Just Castiel’s touch, and the horrified look in his eyes.

“You good?” Dean asks through a whisper, taking the rag back.

Slowly, Castiel nods. “Force of habit,” he says. “I’ll get used to it.”

 _You shouldn't have to_ , Dean thinks. Exhausted, he flops down next to Castiel and plugs his nose; he wraps his other arm around Castiel’s back, urging him to rest his head. “When I was in high school, I broke my arm. Compound fracture. I fell off the roof trying to sneak out of the head cheerleader’s bedroom. Hospital put me in this cast that went up to my shoulder and told me not to move it, or I’d have to have pins put it in.

“Naturally, every chance I got, I tried to move it.” Dean laughs into the rag. Castiel doesn’t make a sound. “For six weeks, I kept doing it, and dad gave me hell for being so stupid. ‘Cause what use am I if I can’t hold a gun, right? But you get used to it.” Gently, he pats Castiel’s hip. “Powers or not, you’re still you. You’re not gonna be able to fix everything, even nosebleeds.”

“I’m not used to being useless,” Castiel says, low. “I used to be able to heal you. I could heal myself, and others, but now… I don’t think I factored your pain into this.”

“Hey.” Dropping his hand, blood pours from Dean’s nose, dripping down his chin. Castiel winces. “I’m gonna get hurt. Hell, you’re gonna bang your elbow one day, and you’re gonna curse God for creating you. But that’s part of being human, right?”

Castiel sniffles. “I’m still afraid they’ll come for me.” Limply, he lays his hand on Dean’s thigh; Dean takes it and presses his thumb into Castiel’s palm. “What am I supposed to do then? I can’t fight them. I couldn’t the first time, and this is what I’ve become because of it.” A sigh. “And I’m afraid they’ll take you with me.”

Steeling his jaw, Dean takes a breath. “They’re not gonna touch us,” he says, and means it. “If they ever show up, and that’s a big if, then I’m gonna be here.”

“You’ve never fought an angel before.” Castiel pulls away, but only slightly. His heat pours into Dean’s side, and his fingers stiffen in Dean’s grasp. “And I’d prefer to have you alive, if that’s alright with you.”

Dean snorts, groaning from the sudden sting. “Trust me, I’m not going anywhere. I just put seventy-thousand miles on Baby with you, think we’ve still got a ways to break her in.”

A smile flits across Castiel’s face. “I think I’d like to go to Vegas,” he says. “Or Reno.”

“They have casinos on riverboats a couple states away,” Dean mentions. “And New Orleans is fun when you’re not up to your elbows in werewolf guts.”

“I’d certainly hope.” Castiel nudges his side. “Say we stopped hunting. Say we took a month or two to drive, where would you want to go?”

 _Anywhere_ , Dean thinks, bringing Castiel’s fingers to his lips. “Doesn’t matter, long as you’re with me,” he says. “Or is that too corny?”

Castiel laughs, for what feels like the first time. “It’s perfect,” he says, and leans into Dean once again.

**Author's Note:**

> This took about a month too long, but it's finally done! This spawned from a dream I had revolving around the first scene, and honestly, it ended up as one of those fics where I could keep writing it forever if I didn't stop myself. I forgot how much I love writing these two ;A;. Now, we move onto my DCBB! Also, my book is currently on about 47k, so we're halfway there! 
> 
> Title is from the Sam Hunt song, "Body Like a Back Road".
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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